The Sharp Taste of Sea Salt
by luminous-jellyfish
Summary: Post-COS, Harry spends a summer with Snape in a cold, unfriendly industrial town. (Guardian fic).
1. Chapter 1

The rickety Ford Escort bounced out of a pot hole and swerved right, narrowly missing a grimy, thin-looking sheep. Through the streaks of water pouring down the windows, Harry could make out vast, empty fields of green, and an angry grey sky above them. Someone had forgotten to tell the weather gods it was now early summer, and the freezing weather from earlier in the spring had continued, along with the rain and the wind. He swallowed miserably, then shivered through his worn sweater – a present from Molly Weasley he'd saved from his first Christmas at Hogwarts.

Right now, though, the dominant sensation Harry was fighting against was an acute sense of hunger. Since they had driven out of Hogsmeade after an early lunch at Hogwarts, Snape hadn't stopped for a fuel break, and Harry was afraid to even bring it up. Underneath the hunger, however, the boy simply felt empty, and scared.

Of course, he hadn't exactly been ecstatic about returning to the Dursleys, especially after the Ford Anglia incident last year. That said, as long as Harry had known them, the Dursleys had been boring, cruel, neglectful – but also remarkably consistent. Harry knew exactly how to pick any lock in the house, how to steal food from the kitchen without raising Petunia's suspicions, and how to clear the memory on Dudley's gadgets so that Dudley would never notice that Harry had borrowed his GameBoy and beaten his score on Super Mario 2. Snape, on the other hand, was a closed book to Harry – or at least, a closed book that might explode at any moment.

"Why are we driving to your house?" The car bounced up and down again, but Snape showed no sign of recognizing Harry's question. The car remained silent – minus the persistent drumming of the rain, and the repetitive swishing of the windshield wipers. Harry waited a couple more seconds to see if the question had registered, then tried again. "Why -"

"If you'd like to walk instead, Potter, that could be easily arranged." Snape's voice sounded silky and dangerous. Ever since they'd began driving, Harry had wondered if Snape too hadn't been forced into this whole arrangement by Dumbledore. Dumbledore had never fully explained why Snape had to be the one to take Harry in for the summer, and Harry had remained confused about why he couldn't have stayed with the Weasleys, the Grangers, or at least the Dursleys, if it came to that.

"No! But... I mean. Wouldn't apparition be faster?"

"Obviously." Harry could see Snape's eyes in the rear-view mirror, and they looked tired and drawn, like the dregs of black coffee swirling at the bottom of the pot. Snape's eyebrows knitted together again, as they had every time during the ride Harry had bothered him with a question or a thought – as if they were _daring _Harry to even consider asking another question. Snape's fingers tapped impatiently on the driving wheel as he waited for the traffic light to change, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, if Snape had a headache. Harry knew better than to ask.

"Sir, do you think we'll be there soon?"

The response was angry, and instantaneous. "Potter, when I want you to babble nonsense from the back seat, I will let you know."

Harry's stomach knotted together again. Facing away from Snape, he drew his feet up on the seat, rested his head on his knees, and turned back toward the blurry window.

…

"Up, Potter."

Harry struggled to peel apart his eyes. When he'd drifted off earlier in the day, the sky had still been the hazy light gray of a rainy afternoon, but the deeper black surrounding him now revealed that it was currently at least late evening.

"Now."

Harry's eyes snapped open, and found Snape's eyes boring into his own from only metres away – cold, tense, and unblinking. He scrambled to undo his seatbelt, and climbed out of the car, inspecting the dimly-lit street. The end of the road they were standing on was near dark – of the two street lamps around him, one had gone out, a small pile of shattered glass scattered dangerously underneath it. It figured that the one time Harry managed to escape the cold uniformity of Privet Drive, he'd managed to find a town even more disagreeable. He kicked away an empty Fanta can into a nearby pile of newspaper scraps smelling of fish & chips. Pursing his lips, he watched Snape methodically go through a number of anti-warding spells. Eventually Snape, seemingly satisfied, pulled out a tiny silver key out of his pocket and turned it three times counter-clockwise in the lock. The door swung open, and what Harry could make of the inside seemed harsh and unwelcoming, dark and dusty.

Harry took a step back from the entrance. _You've gone into the Chamber of Secrets before, _he counseled himself. _You're Gryffindor' youngest seeker in a bloody century. You've stared down Voldemort. This is just Snape's house, that's all. You'll be okay._

He felt Snape gazing down at him.

"Inside, Potter."

And just like that, Harry felt a stubbornness rising up within him. He kicked out again at the soda can that had rolled back under his feet. "Fine!"

Snape spun around with a glare, opened his mouth, but ultimately seemed to think better of it and walked inside, leaving the door open for Harry to follow him. Inside, a slightly cramped living room held a worn green couch surrounded by piles and piles of books covering up the peeling wallpaper. Was this where he'd be spending this summer? "Come, Potter. I won't have you starving," Snape muttered under his breath. Harry glanced up at the back of Snape's head. Hadn't Snape been starving him all day anyway? Maybe Snape really _was_ a super human vampire who could go without food completely, and just didn't realize that lesser beings required nourishment more than once a day.

The boy sighed, followed his professor through yet another door, this one leading to a small kitchen, and watched as Snape muttered hurried Scourgifies and cleaning spells at various drawers until the once grimy space began to look vaguely sanitary. While the fridge was completely empty, the spice rack at least looked incredibly well stocked. Before Snape had closed that drawer again, Harry noticed at least five spices beginning with A at the top of the alphabetically organized rack – everything from anise to allspice to apple mint. Eventually, Snape moved on to scrounging the top shelves, finally getting a plate, a fork, and two cans of anchovies.

As Snape opened the cans, Harry's nose wrinkled and his stomach flipped. He knew that scent. _Aunt Marge had come to stay with them over Harry's seventh birthday, bringing five of her favorite pitbulls, and boasting about her new craze – a fish diet. Every day, she would make Harry feed the dogs cans of foul-smelling, perhaps rotten anchovies, as she mocked him, jeering that she'd make him eat the fish next. She never did, but for days after she left, the stench of stale, rotten fish permeated the ground floor of #4, Privet Drive. _"Can I eat something else, sir? Please?" Harry asked.

Snape turned around and stared down at him, as if disbelieving his own ears. For a second, Harry wondered if he'd actually managed to shock Snape with his audacity. Harry wondered if he should provide an explanation, but he knew he could never explain to Snape why exactly he disliked fish. Not ever.

"While you live in my house, I expect you to eat what you are served." Snape's voice had that scary tone again, the one that signified that Harry had better do what he said, _or else._

Perhaps, everything still would have been alright had Harry nodded, or at least tried to explain his actions, but he suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline coursing through him, the same rush he'd felt leaping down the slide into the Chamber of Secrets, the same rush he felt going after the snitch on a Quidditch pitch. "No. I won't eat it, and you can't make me."

For another second, Snape continued to stare at him. Then, Harry felt his arm twisted, a little painfully, as Snape pulled him out of the kitchen, up a staircase, and into a tiny, dusty room. Once inside the room, Snape paused, and knelt down to Harry's eyes. Snape's eyes inches from his own, Harry suddenly noticed both how angry Snape looked – the same look he had in class when Neville melted yet another cauldron. When Snape began to talk, the words spat, slithered from his mouth. "While you stay at my house, Potter, you will follow _my _rules, or you will find yourself a very, very miserable little boy. You will be obedient, helpful, and agreeable, because I do not have time for your arrogant pre-teen melodrama, not today, not tomorrow, not _ever_. Do I make myself absolutely clear?" The two locked eyes - Snape's angry, furrowed eyes meeting Harry's equally stubborn ones. Snape won, and Harry tore his gaze downward. Snape continued. "If you won't eat what I give you, then you can go without."

Harry's stomach already regretted his impulsive outburst, but he knew that there was no use trying to apologize and he kept his gaze pointed downward as Snape turned away from him and swept out of the room. No summer had ever gone well for Harry Potter. Why should this one have been any different?

Standing in the empty room, Harry quickly catalogued his surroundings – a cot with a stripy blanket, his trunk somehow already here, and, as seemed usual for this house, piles and piles more of books - then lowered his gaze back down as Snape unexpectedly walked back into the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that the anger had receded from Snape's face, and that Snape looked deflated somehow. The creases around Snape's eyes had become dark, dark folds. _Snape is exhausted_, Harry realized.

"Potter. Let me see your arm." Confused, Harry reached out his left arm. Snape shook his head. "No. Other arm. Roll up your sleeve." Even more perplexed, Harry rolled up the sleeve of his sweater. His teacher inspected the already fading scar left by the basilisk less than two weeks ago, used two fingers to feel around the scabbed skin, and then nodded approvingly. "Cover the scar with this, then go to sleep." Snape handed Harry a tiny vial of creamy, blue liquid before heading out of the room, leaving Harry staring astonished at at the door of the room that Snape perhaps intended to be Harry's very own.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry rubbed the last trace of sleep out of his eyes and slowly opened them to the coming day. It was morning, and late morning at that, as he guessed by the light filtering in through the fir-tree green curtains. All around him, he could see small flecks of dust floating, bathed in light, through the small room. Today, though, the room didn't feel cramped and neglected, as it had yesterday, but rather almost cosy. The 12-year old wrapped the thick white and green comforter further around himself, and inspected his new dwelling more closely. The stacks of books next to him seemed to be textbooks – the book nearest to the top was spotted with pictures of luminous jellyfish and funny zebra-striped fish and was titled _A Census of Marine Life, _while the one underneath it looked as if covered by underwater mountains and was titled _An Introduction to Oceanography._ Harry shrugged. He'd never seen the ocean, and textbooks held little interest to him anyway.

Looking up, a number of pennants and posters on the wall across caught his interest. To the left, the wall was covered with various Quidditch posters and signs. Harry decided, however, that the Appleby Arrows poster at the center of the composition was at least a decade old, as he couldn't recognize any of the players. To the right of the Quidditch posters were a number of worn Hogwarts house pennants; Harry scrunched up his nose at the Slytherin snakes that slithered their tongues at him, blabbering nonsense. These pennants too, however, looked remarkably out of date – near the top, Harry could even make out, in what-used-to-be silver lettering, "Slytherin House 1911." All in all, he counted six pennants total – five for Slytherin, and one for Ravenclaw. Harry briefly wondered if this room had once belonged to Snape, or at least to one of Snape's relatives.

He abandoned the mystery, though, as a growling stomach bid him walk downstairs and find sustenance – fast.

…

Snape was downstairs – or at least Harry guessed it was Snape, as the professor's entire upper body was hidden beneath a Sunday copy of the _Daily Prophet. _"Good morning, sir."

"Morning." Yep, definitely Snape, judging by the voice. The professor waved his wand silently at the counter, and a cup of strong black tea with a splash of milk floated over to Harry, followed narrowly by a plate of toast and a pot of orange marmalade. Harry noticed that Snape too had a mug of tea in front of him, his a black cup with a complicated-looking chemical formula printed in white to Harry's green cup with a pattern of leaves around the rim.

"No coffee for you this morning, sir?" Harry chanced. Snape was renowned at Hogwarts for drinking extreme amounts of strong black coffee every breakfast.

"Not in the summer." Harry stopped for a moment to ponder this statement. He couldn't quite understand what Snape had meant, but he could guess – all in all, Snape looked decidedly less tense right now than he ever did during the school year.

"Sir, I'm sorry about... y'know. Yesterday. I just have.. bad memories associated with fish." The words had sounded much better upstairs in Harry's brain than they did now, sputtered out awkwardly. Snape glanced up with unreadable black eyes, nodded, and then went back to his paper.

All in all, though, it was not an unpleasant way to start off the morning, Harry decided. Sure, he might have preferred to have Hermione or Ron for a breakfast companion, but Snape was being surprisingly civil, and the silence was almost... nice. Plus, with the buttery yellow light flooding the room through the curtains, the kitchen felt quite cosy – even if it _was _Snape's kitchen.

Crunching down on his last piece of crispy, warm toast, Harry picked up his dishes, intending to bring them to the sink. Snape looked up at him over the top of his newspaper.

"Sir, is there any dish soap?" Harry figured that being extra polite this morning might help, if he was supposed to be staying here for any lengthy period of time.

"Potter, while I admire your initiative as much as anyone, it is, in this case, utterly unnecessary." Snape flicked his wand again, and a sponge floated over to Harry and took the dishes out of his hand, as gently as a dog picking up a treat from an owner's hand. "If you really want to make yourself useful, difficult as that may be for you, you can take a walk to the local grocery." Harry nodded, and Snape continued. "One box of spaghetti, four cloves of garlic. The money is on the ledge next to the fridge – bring back the change if there is any. Walk three blocks to the right, and you'll see a grocery on your left. Be back within an hour _or I - _"

"I will!" Harry saw an opportunity to get out of the house, however briefly_, _and took it. "Bye, sir!"

By day, the street outside looked much different than it had when Harry had first seen it by nighttime. True, broken glass still littered the concrete, and the buildings in general had an air of abandonment, but walking in the light, he could at least make out some signs of habitation, from a pot of gardenias on one of the window sills, to a couple of children's toys lying next to a bike in someone's yard. Glancing at his reflection in a window, Harry was surprised to note that his appearance had shifted about when he'd gone outside. His scar had faded, and his forehead appeared perfectly whole and unblemished. Furthermore, his hair was replaced with a sandy, light brown shade. His eyes, however, remained their original emerald. Harry shrugged and kept walking. He guessed that the appearance change was some minor side effect of Snape's house wards.

It took him about ten minutes of steady walking to reach a small grocery; a faded sign above the front proclaimed it as Shapwick's. Inside the small store, the aisles were almost empty except for an elderly grandmother slowly picking out cat food in one of the isles. A radio in the background played some sort of hip hop remix with a piano backdrop.

"Found all you were looking for?" asked an elderly shopkeeper, barely stirring from sleep long enough to check out Harry's items.

"Mhm." Harry picked up his groceries, and walked back out on the street.

...

Outside, Harry was about to start his walk back when he noticed a mysterious blue, tin sign by the corner. "Spinner's Seashore – 3 km." _He was near the ocean?! _Completely disoriented, Harry quickly weighted his options, then impulsively decided to make the short trek to the sea. Besides, it wasn't like he was particularly eager to go back yet. Snape could wait for his spaghetti, Harry decided.

About an hour later, all uphill, Harry caught his first glimpse of the open sea. With the plastic bag from the grocery in hand, he made his way toward the littered, cold beach and looked out over the endless water. Blues and greys mixed with the clear white of the sea foam. Sea gulls, swooping overhead, croaked and screeched at him. As Harry walked closer, the freezing waves lapped at his shoes like stray dogs, and Harry noticed that the transparent green of the water in the distance was almost exactly the shade of a couple of broken bottles on the edge of the beach. It was the most magical thing Harry had seen in a long time. He stood on that shore for what seemed like eternity, then turned around to return to Snape's house.

…

It was only while walking up to the steps outside Snape's home that Harry realized that significantly more than an hour had passed since he'd first left the house. Wary, he slowly shuffled up to the front door. He had only taken a couple of steps into the house before he felt Snape's fingers twisting painfully around his ear. "Where were you, Potter?"

Harry grimaced from the pain. "I'm sorry – I went down to the seashore - I didn't mean to disobey, only -"

Snape's fingers relaxed a bit, although he still kept Harry's ear in a painful grip that stung and ached. His voice sounded as harsh and stern as ever. "When I tell you an hour, I expect you back in an hour, not in three." After another minute or so, Snape finally removed his fingers, and Harry cradled his hurting ear, looking up at the strict black eyes.

"Yes, sir."

Seemingly satisfied, Snape turned around, tossing over his shoulder a final "Ask me next time."

...

After that morning's escapade, Harry had been worried that Snape would deprive him of meals today, too, but lunch had passed in the same quietly peaceful manner that breakfast had. Then, a bit before dinner time, Snape came up to knock on Harry's door. "Come down, Potter. If there's one thing I'm going to accomplish this summer it's improving your abysmal potions skills." Harry wrinkled his nose, but got up to follow Snape.

"Today, Potter, you'll be helping me make Midnight Pasta," Snape ground out. Seamlessly slipping into his no-nonsense lecturing voice, Snape guided Harry through the best way to mince garlic – apparently, it was better to add a pinch of salt to the pile, so that the garlic wouldn't stick to the knife. The real test, though, came when Snape took the cans of anchovies back out from the drawer. Harry didn't say anything, his fear of angering Snape yet again and missing out on dinner overriding his dislike of the food stuff. Snape watched him with a glint in his eye, as if daring Harry to defy him and brave the inevitable punishment, but didn't say anything about Harry's freakout the night before. Instead, he simply handed Harry a sharp knife. "Potter. Clear your mind. They're potions ingredients, nothing more, nothing less." Slightly reassured, Harry sighed, and began to chop. After he'd chopped up the fish and added them to the sauce, he heard Snape's quiet voice again coming at him from behind. "Almost acceptable, Potter."


End file.
